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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26271748">Your Cracks Are Showing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrytteMystere/pseuds/BrytteMystere'>BrytteMystere</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Fae!Claire AU [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Outlander (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Because damn BJR that's why, Being an Empath near a Sadist isn't a good time, Black Jack Randall is His Own Warning, Claire doesn't yet know how to control her powers welp, F/M, Fae &amp; Fairies, Fae!Claire Beauchamp, Other, Psychic Bond, Psychological Torture, S01E06: The Captain of the Garrison, This part is half sorta wholesome half angst, unwanted arousal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:41:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26271748</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrytteMystere/pseuds/BrytteMystere</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the future past, Quentin Beauchamp (and unknown to him, Henry) faces with the particular hardships of parenting a halfling.</p><p>In the past present, Claire has the misfortune of meeting a certain Captain of the 8th Dragoons again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Claire Beauchamp &amp; Henry Beauchamp, Claire Beauchamp &amp; Quentin Beauchamp, Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Fae!Claire AU [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646914</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Your Cracks Are Showing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Most of this part is set in two distinct eras and honestly I tried to cut them but it didn't feel right to do so?</p><p>Anyhow, most of the canon bits come from Episode 6 of the 1st season, "The Captain of the Garrison".<br/>Mind you things will get weirder and weirder from now on.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>Somewhere in Egypt, around 1925</em> </b>
</p><p>Lambert looked at his niece, not being fully able to keep himself from smiling. There had been… harsh moments, of course. When he thought of what Claire's birth had meant for Julia, what… <em> whatever </em> her father had truly been and how it could manifest on the now last member of his family. Not that Claire seemed strange in any way. Which should have been reassuring and yet just set him on edge.</p><p>She approached him with the cigarette he'd asked her to reach for him, and he set his tools down to take a long drag of it, letting her follow next. Looking at her in these tiny instances was easy enough, in a way. She looked so utterly <em> human </em> at that moment that he could almost convince himself that she wasn't a time bomb waiting for the right moment or circumstances to explode in his face. Still, charmingly humane as she was, he'd given much thought to her education, for he knew at some point it would be the only thing keeping her from fully succumbing to the tendencies of her father's kin.</p><p>Wherever they went, no matter how isolated, she had tutors, the very best he could find short of sending her back to England and into some fancy boarding school (he'd tried, but that hadn't exactly gone according to plan). His focus was to anchor her to humanity, and for this he took special care to have her properly taught on Ethics and Social Humanities. Claire, however, remained most interested in the sciences, and so his approach eventually shifted to take this into account.</p><p>This is how they found themselves in such a situation, by the remains he'd carefully been unearthing, taking in a cigarette as he took the time to explain every part that had already been freed from Earth's hold, how they came together, and what every part was meant to do.</p><p>He could see, by how her eyes shone and how carefully she handled the bones, that this approach was already proving fruitful.</p><p>Smiling more gently from thereon, Lamb showed her how to gently free the skull, and started pondering who may be able to start teaching her about biology, and how to heal.</p><hr/><p>By the time Claire was 18, her fascination with medicine had gone far beyond anything Lamb had ever imagined. It was delightful, in many ways, but there was an underlying uneasiness when it came to how absolute her focus was. She'd started following doctors, at first. Every time they happened to return to England, no matter how briefly, a stop at Pembroke Hospital became essential.</p><p>Yet after some time she'd started scoffing at the doctors and their methods, calling them <em> primitive </em> as if she hadn't been meeting the most recent pioneers in the field.</p><p>As this attitude sharpened, he kept trying to gentle her approach, to get her to see how she's alienating those she could learn so much from… maybe he hadn't been as diplomatic as he hoped. Maybe she was already stressed and he'd just come at a wrong moment, but she went completely ballistic on him.</p><p>And as he stood there, astounded, for Claire wasn't the type to explode in tantrums, he couldn't keep his focus away from her eyes. Those eyes, which were usually as hazel as his own, were now a brilliant quasi golden he had only ever seen in certain types of beasts.</p><p>She'd never looked more unnatural. And still, he couldn't quite feel as alarmed as he should be. There was little to nothing he wouldn't do for her. For those eyes right then… were just like Julia's.</p><hr/><p>
  <b> <em>Somewhere in a far away land</em> </b>
</p><p>All he had done, he'd done for his child.</p><p>There <em> had </em> to be a measure of humanity in that, right? Why then, did he feel Julia haunting him? Those Fae like eyes of hers, rare in a human so distanced from the purity of their bloodline, focused on him with endless judgement?</p><p>There was already too much he owed his daughter.</p><p>She should have been able to grow within the hallowed halls of their family palace, wear only the softests, richest fabrics, learn from her earliest years what her existence would be, seeing the thread of her fate and being allowed to weave it as she pleased.</p><p>Instead, she had been forced to live on the move, drawn towards the most recondite places of that hollowed Earth of hers, following an English Bachelor who despite determined attempts, remained little aware of the sort of education someone with her royal blood would have needed.</p><p>What were his so-called experts, but charlatans with prestige? Which of their techniques hadn't already been long dismissed as nonsensical rubbish by those of the court who had delved into all manner of anatomical studies to pass their time, their eternity?</p><p>True, their kind took things far less hurriedly than mortals ever could, but when this patience was added to the disregard most of the Fae held towards not only humanity, but other ilk, was it truly any wonder that their progress far outstripped the mortals?</p><p>Which of the Haruspices hadn't had their rota of bodies to perfect their every cut? Endless tries to properly discern all manner of organs, and the many ways they could fit together to form a living being?</p><p>To limit his daughter to hearsay and the primitive nonsense of her surroundings would have been grievous indeed.</p><p>So he didn't.</p><hr/><p>
  <b> <em>Dreamlands</em> </b>
</p><p>Claire opened her eyes to a perfectly white room.</p><p>As usual, no source of light was visible anywhere, yet the light was so strong it took her a moment to adjust.</p><p>Once she had, however, her eyes drifted down to see the strange get up she had no recollection of wearing.</p><p>It was the strangest type of bodysuit she had ever seen.</p><p>She was unable to <em> touch it, </em> of course, for her gloves, of an impeccable whiteness that matched the suit, kept her sense of tact limited in such fashions. However, she could tell it was rather thin, if extremely resilient in its duty to keep her own body - and the scarlet clothing that kept her apart from the suit itself - dry and free from spills. Not for the first time, nor the last, Claire wished that she could have such a thing while awake, to further show all those charlatans who looked down on their noses at the girl who had once tried to help them figure out where their beliefs went astray how she <em> knew </em> what she was talking about.</p><p>After all, clothing may not make the expert, but they certainly granted a measure of respect lacking them lost.</p><p>Who cared if your technique with the scalpel was far more advanced than most if you still looked like a cute preteen who hadn't seen much hardship beyond the occasional camping trip?</p><p>She could have been doing surgery almost before she got her period, yet what doctor would allow her anywhere near an ailing patient? It was already an odyssey to get anywhere close to a corpse, and there wasn't much harm one could cause to those with a failed cut.</p><p>Had she not had this, the uncertain time of minutes or years, in the endless white expansion of whatever facility she found herself in after her mind surrendered to Morpheus' power… why, she would have long been driven mad.</p><p><em> (</em> <em>Or mayhaps, had she not known from an early age to cut living beings open and learn their every part, before learning to piece them back together, she would not have expected the same treatment upon awakening</em> <em>) </em></p><p>Yet here she was again, covered head to toe, the thin screen that protected her face gently waiting for her mind to get on track with the work expected of her, before at last showing the instructions of the task presented before her.</p><p>On the medical bed was laid a woman, sweating, pale from pain even in the thrall of the drugs that should have separated her from her body's malfunctions… wait.</p><p>Claire stopped on her tracks, confusion lining her brow as she realized there was no needle on either of the woman's arms, no connections at all between her and the lifted bag of medicine still standing by the bed.</p><p>The screen before her eyes answered the question as if it could read her thoughts.</p><p>
  <b> <em>Patient has not been given sedatives or other medications.</em> </b>
</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>She rarely felt the need to talk, in this space. Her every question could always be answered with thinking it, whether by a direct statement from the screen, the eerily everywhere and nowhere voice of whom she had to assume was her supervisor, or the abrupt fall of a book in just the right place to help her study whatever had pricked her mind.</p><p>Yet this individual, a living being, had strangely enough not been sedated.</p><p>Even during her first few operations, those in which she had botched the affair so thoroughly the subject had served more to teach her to finesse her autopsies instead of being anywhere near mended back into proper function, they had been fully sedated.</p><p>Her supervisor, in their usual low yet soft voice, had informed her that their screams would not have helped her learn what she had to do.</p><p>Which meant…</p><p>Claire blinked. Once, twice, three times. A gasp took her breath away as her body felt the sudden influx of sheer adrenaline course through her, her whole being drawing to attention as she lightly bounced on her feet.</p><p>"Oh! <em>Oh!</em> <b><em>Oh!</em></b> Have I improved this much, Mistress? Is it time for my final examinations?"</p><p>If no sedative had been given… didn't this mean that she was now trusted to experiment fully? To operate, with high chances of her own mastery not bringing the subject to die from shock?</p><p>One way or another, to be trusted to not get distracted by screams was already so heartwarming Claire could have walked on air.</p><p>
  <b> <em>Daughter of Winter, proceed. You have 4 hours to complete the assignment. The patient has been shot with a pistol, and the bullet has lodged itself in her pelvis...</em> </b>
</p><p>Claire's smile was beaming as she turned to her tools, hands steady even if her heart was doing summersaults.</p><p>The woman screamed for all of the first hour.</p><hr/><p>
  <b> <em>Scotland, Autumn of 1743. British Garrison</em> </b>
</p><p>Rage boiled deep within, extending to her very soul and lingering just beneath her skin, as she found herself alone with the very man she had had the utter misfortune of confusing with Frank, that dreadful first day she had awakened in her new present. His every word was further kindle to the already fairly unbearable wrath coursing through her soul.</p><p>The last thing she had ever wanted was to meet him again, after their disastrous last encounter, yet there they were, alone.</p><p>All the other British officers had vacated the premises while she was down operating on a poor bastard who had the extreme bad luck of her not having any of her tools at hand, nor any semblance of antibiotics.</p><p>Still, she had mended him as well as he could be, given the dreadful lack of resources, and she had been happy to go back to the general and try to endear herself to him.</p><p>Her goal, after all, was clear. She had to get to the highest possible echelon of the British army at hand, and figure out how to free her husband from his Outlaw status. She knew it could be done, and when meeting the General it had seemed like she may hit the jackpot, when her apparent lack of sheer disdain towards the Scottish people seemed to sink her dreams.</p><p>This was confirmed by the man she had come to hate, if only for his extremely unwarranted attack, and how utterly <em> un</em>alike Frank he was despite the sheer similarity of their features.</p><p>The latest was quite the unreasonable thought, of course. Jonathan Wolverton Randall had absolutely no reason to share personality with a descendant separated from his person by over two whole centuries, yet Claire felt that this was his greatest sin.</p><p>After all, she would have disdained him for his actions towards the Scottish people - Jamie and his sister in particular - but handwaved it as the usual brutishness of the time, had he not been able to pass as her first husband's doppelgänger.</p><p>Still, she did not fear him.</p><p>Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp - once Randall, now Fraser, even if it was only known to her and her husband and his godfather - had entered the room with her hands still bloodied, to find it empty of all its previous occupants except the one she didn't want to meet, still dirty and with his boots on the table like the mannerless caveman he was.</p><p>Yes, he was being shaved, but he could have damn well been sitting properly, and doing the shaving in whatever room saw fit to welcome him, instead of the bloody dining room the general had not that long ago warmly welcomed her to. There was still food at the table!</p><p>"Nurse Beauchamp. Are you back from saving lives?"</p><p>His tone couldn't be more sarcastic if he tried, and she dearly wanted to shove whatever poor officer was acting as his personal valet to the side and slice his soaped throat. Right then and there.</p><p>Her fingers could have twitched, the urge was so great. To make him pay for again bringing up the ghost of the husband she had lost, and twist it with his repulsive presence.</p><p>"Where is Lord Thomas?" She said instead, dearly hoping the slightest tremble in her voice would be taken as wary hesitation instead of the coiling murderous rage that fought to take her over.</p><p>"He's off hunting rebels," he snorted. "Not that he will find any. Having seen him on a horse, he'll be lucky to stay in the saddle."</p><p>Well, if she could have had any doubts at all, that settled it. Those two did not care for the other, and part of her liked Lord Thomas all the better, despite his pompousness, solely on the fact that the so-called <em> Black Jack </em> Randall hated him.</p><p>"Please, try not to speak, Captain," the previously silent officer said at last. Part of Claire lost further respect towards him due to his next words. "My barbering skills aren't up to shaving a moving target."</p><p><em> She </em> had been able to shave Frank easily enough, even when he was immersed in one of his excited dissertations on the Jacobite uprisings.</p><p>Loving how the excitement made his eyes shine, she had merely enjoyed hearing him speak as she handled the edge masterfully over his skin, not a nip left behind even when her husband got breathless, eyes staring up at her as if she'd just hanged the moon up for him.</p><p>She had pampered him, that day long ago, before the war had torn them apart and her memories got blurry, and she could almost feel his arms drawing her in, his promise to protect her warming her and at least for a moment, settling down her rage into the slightest warmth of fondness.</p><p>When her eyes focused again, however, there was blood in that face which so resembled Frank's.</p><p>The man grimaced and rose his hand to the cut, as the fumbling officer apologized. Claire silently resented him just a tad more.</p><p>For yes, she hated Black Jack Randall a fair amount, and would happily bring that blade - the blade that two hundred years in the future she would be using to shave her first husband - to open his throat, but that was <em> her. </em></p><p>And while she knew it was still irrational, this conception of being the only one allowed to harm the man who so resembled Frank… the thought lingered. Which must have been why, while he held the poor bastard who had just cut him beneath the power of that same, steady blade, there was a hint of fascination within her.</p><p>Somehow, this man she could never see ever attempting to mend anyone, had the steadiness of a veteran surgeon.</p><p>When his eyes met hers, however, her breath stopped for a moment.</p><p>Still, the officer was soon gone, and they were now, truly, alone again.</p><p>She could feel it in the air, this aura of bloodied danger he was enveloped in, almost akin to a second skin, yet no fear truly assaulted her. Even as those options within the garrison she had thought favourable, even amiable, were proven gone.</p><p>They sat, distant yet unbearably intimate, and she felt the same kind of dreadful echo her first interrogation with Colum MacKenzie had held.</p><p>It annoyed her.</p><p>Every person she met, even this disgrace of a British soldier - to her, so used to see her countrymen as heroic standards of behaviour, boldly and fiercely fighting the dreaded menace of the Nazis - seemed to feel the need to question her, and to be absolutely honest, she was beyond tired of the whole routine. It felt quite unfair, all said and done.</p><p>Lies, she had found quite early in life, did not become her.</p><p>Every attempt got stuck in her throat, till she slowly but surely learned to stick with twisting truths in whatever way she could to endow herself with the needed falsehoods she couldn't directly say.</p><p>Even here she could hear the ghost of Frank, whispering in her ears, doing his best to help her through the utter betrayal of her face and being whenever she tried to deceive someone.</p><p>This… inability of hers greatly infuriated her, yet she had grown used to it. Because it also held an extremely useful merit to it.</p><p>She could not lie, yes, but <em> lying to her </em> proved equally as difficult.</p><p>So as the Captain offered her a seat, after expressing apologies for their first meeting… well, in short, she knew he was full of shit.</p><p>
  <em> 'Shamed, my arse.' </em>
</p><p>"My honesty will match yours, Captain."</p><p>She, unlike him, was true to her word. So, just as he had bold-facedly lied to her about a feeling of contriteness he neither felt nor would feel, she carefully chose the way she expressed her truth, in such a way that subjects ended up mixed and twisted into a tale false enough to match his own.</p><p>For, yes, she had followed her lover to Scotland, and yes, he had been an officer - if from the Intelligence Services rather than the military proper - but he had also been her husband, two hundred years into the future.</p><p>And yes, she had been intimate with a man <em> in </em> Scotland, who was quite lascivious, if only with and towards her own person, who had also married her in blood if not in Church.</p><p>Claire regardless held their blood bond more to heart than any Church ceremony, even in her past future, vividly recalling how she had gently guided Frank into it after their ceremony in a small Scottish Church was done.</p><p>So, yes, she had drawn <em> conclusions </em> from her first meeting with the Captain, and this all she wove into a farcical tale of her supposedly torrid affair that ended up with her in her underwear - innerly scoffing at their dismissal of her perfectly serviceable dress, much as she had become fond of the time's fashions - while he narrowed his eyes as she saw the sheer disbelief hiding just beneath his façade.</p><p>Still. If he didn't want her to be deceitful, he shouldn't have tried to deceive her in turn. Her words still held.</p><p>"... <em> a rake and a whoremonger. It was not love he felt for me, it was lust. And when I refused him, he attacked me." </em></p><p>She truly did wonder then, as tears build up in her eyes, if he even realized she was talking about <em> him </em> right then. Of finding him, hopeful her husband remained alive and every shred of her nightmares had been just that, to believe his tenderness meant he loved her still, regardless of whatever she may or may not have done…</p><p>To be then brutally attacked, his hands on her neck before he went to ruin her dress far beyond what her unexpected travels had, before Murtagh had mercifully saved her from him.</p><p>"I can only hope you prove yourself the gentleman you claim to be. Do not pry any further."</p><p>She could see it, the dismissal in his expression, the building disdain, and couldn't help but feel outraged.</p><p>What right did he have, to feel slighted? <em> She </em> had been lied to first, had yet to get a proper apology from his actions instead of a thinly veiled plot to get in her good graces before an impromptu interrogation, yet he still had the <em> nerve </em> to demand honesty without any wish to reciprocate.</p><p>She considered that all things given her composure was quite good, even as he left the opposite end of the table and approached her, his intentions rather unclear even as he asked her for the man's name.</p><p>
  <em> 'If I said your own… I do wonder what expression you would make?' </em>
</p><p>She had many names that could be said, of course. His question had been rather vague, and "What is the man's name" could be taken to allude towards any man whose name she had ever known.</p><p>So, without choking on her words, she could have recited then and there well over a thousand names, with their due surnames, if she had wished to.</p><p>Yet that would be more truth than she has been granted, and so the very thought prickled her soul.</p><p>She politely enough refused to answer.</p><p>"... I could ruin both his career and his reputation."</p><p>It took her a moment to realize he was <em> drawing </em> her, and part of her was miffed at the lack of permission to put her face in a tablecloth, while the other was mildly gratified that he had realized her face was more than deserving of being artfully rendered.</p><p>"Please," he said at last, gesturing towards what she had to assume was his finished work. "I would be interested in your opinion."</p><p>His voice was softer, gentler, and despite her misgivings, to his side she went.</p><p>Not that she was unaware of what he'd done. Claire was simply allowing herself to admire her likeness, and the sheer artfulness of his subtler gestures, what with making <em> her </em> finish bridging the gap that had lied between them.</p><p>She rose, and so did he, till there was hardly space between them and she could truly observe his work.</p><p>She had to admit then that he was far better an artist than she had ever bothered to think him, and while he clearly hadn't worked anywhere near as carefully in her hair, her features were rendered properly enough to be flattering, even if her expression in the cloth, in the sketch, was far more cunning than she had ever shown him.</p><p>"You… captured my likeness…"</p><p>"You think so?" The sarcasm was back in his voice, and she felt more and more wary by the moment. "I'm glad. I shall call it <em> Beautiful Lies." </em></p><p>And there it was. There he went again. Shaming <em> her </em> for deceit while apparently unaware of how conscious of his own she was.</p><p>What, did he think it was fair game when <em> he </em> did it?</p><p>She stood her ground, even if part of her wanted to back away, to have the full length of the table between them once again. Her pride wouldn't have easily suffered to be made to retreat by the likes of him.</p><p>"You wish to get to Inverness? Very well." His eyes remained fixed on hers, his whole being confident. Did he mayhaps feel she had been trapped? "I <b> <em>know</em> </b> Dougal McKenzie is raising funds for the Jacobite cause. I merely lack the necessary proof to take him into custody."</p><p>Those words struck her like a sword to the heart. That is what this was? Did he seriously believe she would care for any cause that put her husband in the humiliating position of having his scars - scars the man now before her had caused, no less! - exposed?</p><p>She had comforted Jamie in whatever way she could, drawing him into the quietness of the woods to merge with her, settling his fiery heart within her, sneaking him into her room whenever one was available… and staying silent, as he had asked her to, when his uncle repeatedly used him for his own means, publicly humiliating him for a cause doomed to fail, even if she had to bit her tongue till she bled to keep herself so.</p><p><em> "You </em> will furnish me with that proof."</p><p>His last words came to her as if through a mirage.</p><p>"Jacobite cause? I have no idea what-" Her voice wavered, uncertain, choked off as every time she tried to express a direct lie. <em> 'What you wish me to say,' </em> had been her intended follow up, yet he not only interrupted her, but moved from her all the way in a full route, till he was again back by his original seat.</p><p>"Do not stand there and pretend that you have lived among the MacKenzies these past months and not heard them voice support for that failure James and his witless offspring Charles."</p><p>Thing is, she <em> agreed</em>. Her opinion on the Stuarts had never been too high - not that the Georges were much of an improvement - but if anything the sheer senseless devastation that would occur at Culloden moor would have already been enough to set her against the <em> Bonnie Prince Charlie. </em></p><p>"Mr. MacKenzie would have to be witless indeed to discuss treason in front of an English woman."</p><p>The beauty of conditional statements was that they could be absolutely true (Dougal MacKenzie had indeed been a witless fool to think that merely switching to Gaelic would keep her from understanding what exactly he was doing for any amount of time, but then, maybe he was, if his inclination towards a leader merely due to his supposedly worthier bloodline was any clue) <em> and </em> yet lead the listener to doubt them merely from the way they were stated.</p><p>Since she had wrapped her words in the sheer disbelief that lingered in her from the outrage of them using Jamie for such a stupid cause, it would make sense that it would have the wished effect.</p><p><em> "Unless </em> that English woman was sympathetic to his cause."</p><p>These words of his both proved he was smarter than she had given him credit for, by seeing through her misdirection, and yet stupider, for even thinking <em> she, personally, </em>would ever agree to the Jacobite cause.</p><p>Not that she could fully blame him for that one, seeing as he had no way of knowing she knew full well how much of a failed cause it was. Or her opinion on the Stuarts in general and Charles in particular.</p><p>Still.</p><p>"I'm not that woman."</p><p>"Then prove it."</p><p>His reply was immediate, and she again felt the urge to grab one of the many forgotten glasses and lob it at his head.</p><p>Again, he had no way of knowing that she <em> could not </em> give up Dougal MacKenzie without having Jamie implicated - and the old bastard was more than petty enough to drag Jamie to the scaffold with him, having apparently tried to kill him more than once. Knowing this, she still felt her sheer hatred towards Jonathan Randall - and oh, what <em> was it </em> with her meeting Jonathans? - increase.</p><p>Her face may or may not have freely expressed the <em> are you for real </em> thoughts then fully taking hold of her.</p><p>"Have you seen any of your Scottish companions attempting to raise funds for the rebellion?"</p><p>Even as she heard him she felt her head shake, the sheer refusal of the continuous nights of seeing Jamie be exposed to the crowd's heers flashing before her eyes.</p><p>She still felt tears building in her eyes, this time more a product of hardly endured humiliation than of rage itself.</p><p>For, if her husband was humiliated, wasn't she humiliated in turn? They were to share joys and miseries, and she had felt his helpless rage as surely as him, their bond thickening with every exchange, with every kiss.</p><p>She could imagine easily enough that he could feel her now, through the distance, her emotions having been more than intense enough to distract him through the whole unfortunate meeting.</p><p>"No, I have not."</p><p>She hadn't been able to look, that is. All her eyes could see was Jamie's contrite face, as her hand found his thigh beneath the table, and she did her best to help her endure.</p><p>"You've not heard <em> a single MacKenzie </em> speak Jacobite treason?"</p><p>That last question was too direct for her to even consider trying to answer it. His every gesture already told her he would not believe her.</p><p>"How many times must I say it?"</p><p>She stared at him, not sure anymore of what he wanted to hear, what his goal was.</p><p>"I would not believe you," he said at last, "if you told me that night is dark and day is bright."</p><p>
  <em> Then why the bloody hell do you keep asking, you absolute douchebag!? </em>
</p><p>Her patience was, by then, mostly gone, burnt away with every obnoxious question, with the very knowledge that the both of them must have known from the start that there would be no honesty between them.</p><p>He had set it so, and she had complied. The endless questioning, especially given her every answer would have been dismissed regardless of truthfulness, felt even more aggravating now.</p><p><em>"Captain,</em> am I under arrest? Because if not, then I refuse to submit further to this interrogation."</p><p>They were on opposite ends of the table once again, if only kept apart by its width instead of its length, and she promptly sat, hands neatly arranged on her lap.</p><p>"I will await Lord Thomas' return, no matter how long it takes. I place my fate in his hands."</p><p>Her goal, regardless of the extremely infuriating man still standing in front of her, remained the same.</p><p>She had to go to Inverness, and from there find her way either to France or straight to London, gather allies, and powerful ones, to her cause in order to get Jamie exonerated. This was her route, and she would follow it.</p><p>His every day spent at Castle Leoch, surrounded by the MacKenzies, was a danger that wouldn't be held at bay forever, and she was not about to have a repeat of the manhunt and the disdainful scrutiny that had followed that night, which would have otherwise been utterly pleasant if they hadn't had such a rude awakening the morning after.</p><p>Black Jack Randall was making his route again, approaching, as she spoke.</p><p>"If you wish to put me under guard in the meantime, then I shall not protest."</p><p>Alright, so, um… <em> maybe </em> she shouldn't have let as much disdain towards him as she had, be expressed in her words, regardless of how warranted. Still, the words were out not and she could not take them back. Nor did she really want to.</p><p>They were in a British garrison, and despite the time differences, she fairly trusted that his actions against her would be limited by their surroundings. After all, despite her less than vitriolic feelings towards the people of Scotland, she was still an English citizen, a Lady, and certain standards should be more firmly established in the civil environs of the garrison, when they weren't in the relative isolation of a river bank within the woods.</p><p>So she sat, lightly fidgeting with the blood remains coagulating in her hands and forearms, even as she felt him standing right by her side, close enough to her chair that she could clearly feel the warmth of his body, the lingering musk of the horse he had been riding not that long ago, his sweat and the vague lavender perfume of what had to have been his shaving soap.</p><p>"You will not leave this room until I am satisfied that you are as innocent as you claim to be."</p><p>There it was, the ring of absolute truth his words hadn't had at any prior moment in their seemingly endless conversation… except...</p><p>"Either you can cooperate with me, or I shall be forced to use methods less pleasant than talk."</p><p>The sheer irony of his words forced an astounded smile in her lips. She could hardly believe the sheer shamelessness of him.</p><p>
  <em> "Madam… Ever since our first encounter, I have been in a state of… extreme discomfort." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "I am not a casual person with women. I look forward to the opportunity to reveal my true nature to you, and I can only hope that honesty will be met with honesty." </em>
</p><p>His previous words wove themselves around her mind then, as she realized it. This was it, wasn't it?</p><p>He meant to vent whatever 'extreme discomfort' she had left him with, that day, and reveal with it his true nature to her.</p><p>She almost wished to tell him there was no need, for she had easily enough realized how much of an absolute bastard he was without him needing to reaffirm it.</p><p>Jamie's back, so often exposed since they were off Leoch to collect rents, was as vivid a picture in her eyes as the room she was currently in, and it did little to measure her words.</p><p>"I've heard about your <em> methods, </em> Captain," she said with all the viciousness held in her heart, disregarding the obvious confusion in him right then. "What would you do, <em> lay my back open to the bone?" </em></p><p>She welcomed him to try it. She only ever needed an excuse, just the slightest justification would be enough to break every bone of his hands, here and now, regardless of the many soldiers that could surely come to his call. Just the faintest excuse, and she could wreck upon him ten times the misery he had inflicted on her husband.</p><p>For she, too, longed to vent. To vent her rage and despair, at having been tricked by a familiar face into believing, if only till his hands were wrapped around her throat and then tearing at her dress, that the man who had loved to death had not, in fact, died at her own hands.</p><p>"I understand flogging is something of a <em> sport </em> for you."</p><p>"Oh, on the contrary," he had the <em> sheer nerve of saying. </em> "I take it very seriously."</p><p>
  <em> As seriously as I'll take clawing that darkened husk of a heart you have hiding in your chest and tearing it to pieces in front of your very eyes, I'm sure! </em>
</p><p>"I'm sure you'll be <em> pleased </em> to learn that you've earned quite the reputation at Castle Leoch." Had she been less angry, mayhaps, she would have considered what her words would have <em> told </em> him, but by then her mind was a haze and her nails clung to the fabric of her skirt to keep herself from jumping up and back, to claw at his face and tear him open.</p><p>"Yes, I'm told that you once administered a 100 lashes upon a 100 lashes upon a poor highlander boy."</p><p>There was silence, then, and she wished dearly that he felt even slightly ashamed at his own savagery. Still, he walked away from her, all the way around the table till they met again across its width, and did that exaggerated inhalation that made her feel he was a hound trying to sniff her out.</p><p>Mayhaps now the table prevented her throwing herself at him to claw off his face, but there was still plenty of cutlery at hand and more than enough goblets.</p><p>"A <em> poor highlander boy?" </em></p><p>Her chin rose, her whole body straightening in her seat. Her glare sharpened.</p><p>"If I take your meaning, that <em> boy </em> is a wanted thief and a murderer."</p><p><em>Look who's talking!</em> <em>Will your face not rot from shame?</em></p><p>"I was told he'd merely stolen a loaf of bread."</p><p>Her teeth were bared, and her rage had to be clear in her face, yet he seemed unbothered by either.</p><p>"Did Dougal MacKenzie tell you that? Uhm?"</p><p>What could she do, but glare at him? If her hands left her skirt she would not be able to hold herself accountable if a knife were to be thrown at him.</p><p>At him, and that arched brow of his that just made her need to hurt him worse.</p><p>"He was there," he continued, and froze her mind on its tracks. </p><p>"He witnessed it. The thief had been flogged before for trying to escape. 100 lashes administered by the Corporal, a man… not without skill using the cat-o'-nine-tails, but… the thief didn't break."</p><p>With his eyes on hers, right then, she could almost see it. Stand there with him, as Jamie, white shirt bloodied, was dragged back onto the scaffold. Hurt, yet undaunted.</p><p>"No, he took his punishment without making a single sound."</p><p>She could faintly <em> feel </em> Jamie, his inexperienced attempt to send some measure of comfort her way through their bond paling to the sheer intensity of what Captain Randall was weaving for her.</p><p>Jamie, hurt yet steady, taking his own shirt off without protest, without deigning to waste a single word on the beast about to attack him.</p><p>"It set a very bad example for the assembled onlookers, both soldiers and civilians, and I could not allow that <em> insult </em> to the crown to pass unchecked," he continued, and she was beside him, as Jamie folded his shirt as well as he could, the crowd around them far thicker than she could have ever hoped it would be.</p><p>She wanted to tear out their eyes, all of them. To take the cat-o'-nine-tails herself and wreck upon them just as much misery as they had come to see. It mattered not if they were there to <em> enjoy </em> the show or show sympathy, she hated them all on principle.</p><p>"So <em> yes. </em> I decided that a further 100 lashes were in order."</p><p>A slight discordance in his vivid tale mildly threw her off the scene, finding herself back in her seat at the garrison, staring up at those eyes of his, of a light brown tone that had been endlessly warm in Frank yet was somehow too unnerving in the Captain.</p><p>There was something missing, something he wasn't telling her. Something that had drawn his hand to cruelty far beyond any supposed insult to the crown.</p><p>Yet those unnerving brown-black eyes were shining then, his whole being so vivid, so <em> intense </em> that she was soon back in that moment, in that scene, with Jamie's bloodied back in front of her, the still fresh wounds of his flogging there for all to see.</p><p>She could feel the crowd's murmurs somehow become lower, as her whole attention focused on that back, on that man, and she could feel the insidious emotions of the last man she could have ever wanted to hold any connection to.</p><p>
  <em> "This time, I would administer them myself." </em>
</p><p>There was a flash of extremely unwanted warmth assaulting her right then, an excitement that wasn't hers, invading her senses as she drowned in his eyes, in the scene, in Jamie's bloody back, the strength of his unrelenting posture…</p><p><em> His denial, well, I shall make you mine in a different way </em>-</p><p>She winced, feeling trapped, sick, wanting desperately to flee, to not <em> see, </em> to break this miserable connection to this monster who was <em> invading her, </em> to not hear his voice, not see his face, not see him <em> poking Jamie's wounds with the hold of his weapon, not hear her poor love whimper between his teeth, doing his best to not make a sound even as his flesh was further torn asunder… </em></p><p>Claire wanted to puke. To throw everything at hand at him, to make him <em> stop </em> yet couldn't.</p><p>This had been her husband's pain, her husband's torrure, and she had to feel it, was cursed to feel it, regardless of how utterly unwilling she was.</p><p>And oh, she wished right then that the most detailed recollection hadn't come from <em> this beast, </em> that she had been meeting Jamie's eyes when she had heard his tale that night by the fire, if only so she wouldn't have been drawn into the scene through <em> Black Jack Randall's eyes. </em></p><p>
  <em> "You're shaking. Are you scared?" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Only that I'll freeze stiff afore ye're done talking." </em>
</p><p>She wanted to scream, to whimper, <em> something </em> yet her lips were as if glued. He had made no sound, and neither could she.</p><p>
  <b> <em>"I will break you."</em> </b>
</p><p>He said so to her to <em> Jamie</em>, yet lines were getting blurry.</p><p>She was <em> there</em>, she felt it, saw it, yet <em> who </em> exactly was she remained nevolous.</p><p>Had she he just punched Jamie in the gut? Had she he just been punched in the gut?</p><p>"Have you ever <em> seen </em> a man scourged, Madam?"</p><p>At the worst possible time, when she was already having a hard time freeing herself from his sickening intensity, as if aware of her desperate attempts to flee, he drew her further in, wove her into the scene, through <em> his </em> accursed eyes.</p><p>"It is never pretty. And the thought of the whip coming down across that pitiful, raw flesh made my stomach flutter and my legs shake…"</p><p>
  <em> 'With excitement. With joy. With pleasure, you sick, deranged monster. I can feel it even now, I could see it in your pants, I'm sure, were the table any lower.' </em>
</p><p>She could hardly bear to look at him, as he pretended to feel distress and settled back into his original seat, now that much closer due to her last seating choices.</p><p>Claire was nauseous, faint. She could feel every shred of composure she had left tearing, ragged pieces blown to the wind, as she trembled on her seat.</p><p>She needed Jamie. She needed him near, present, whole… as far away from the monstrous savage she shared a table with right then.</p><p>The feeling was muted, as she felt a measure of shock take hold and distance her from her own flesh, yet the beast named Randall kept her trapped, unbearably present. What could Jamie, so new to this connection between them as her, so less… <em> touched, </em> by whatever <em> thing </em> within her had killed her first husband and that kitchen wench, do to save her from afar?</p><p>She had to bear this on her lonesome. A measure of the torture he had gone through, on his lonesome.</p><p>"I did. I had intended… to pace myself," continued at last that voice she was learning to dread, to fear, even.</p><p>She, so unbothered by him at first, so certain, was now…</p><p>"100 lashes is… fatiguing to the arm."</p><p>She was back in that accursed scaffold, whip in hand and… oh, the blood <em> flowed </em> from him, yet not a sound escaped him.</p><p>She wanted to lick it, drink it all, make him wince, make him scream…</p><p>
  <b> <em>"I will break you."</em> </b>
</p><p>Bile reached the back of her tongue and would not leave.</p><p>Even then, she could feel it, this phantom of tar dripping over her with his every word, sinking in deep and <em> choking choking choking her… </em></p><p>"Again, the boy refused to cry out."</p><p>Lash, after lash, after lash… was it her hand? His? She couldn't tell.</p><p>Jamie wobbled, fell yet rose again, and she kept, kept, kept hurting him.</p><p>"I wonder… did he hope to stir me... to pity?" A soft exhale, disbelieving. "If he did, he was sadly mistaken, I was…"</p><p>
  <em> Excited. Pleased. Obsessed. </em>
</p><p>I shall break you. <em>I shall break you.</em> <b><em>I shall break you.</em></b></p><p>"I was hurting him. I could <em> feel it." </em></p><p>He inhaled again, she inhaled again.</p><p>"The sheer… <em> judder, </em> of the whip coursing up my arm, exploding into my heart."</p><p><em> 'Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Hit me, at least. Good gods, </em> <b> <em>stop stop stop talking.'</em> </b></p><p>Tears were by then freely falling down her eyes, hatred and revulsion coiling tightly within her she couldn't help but <em> feel </em> his hardness, her wetness, wanting to tear the both of them to shreds.</p><p>"But the boy... <em> would not </em>beg for mercy. The boy would not beg."</p><p>Their eyes met again, and she could see it, Jamie pulling himself back on his feet, the pain etched in every line of his body, and <em> oh </em> she wanted him <em> so much. </em></p><p>
  <em> 'No, please, please, please stop…' </em>
</p><p>Both were beyond exhausted, and by then pieces of Jamie's flesh were hanging by a single thread of muscle to his back, his blood having well tainted his kilt and the wood at his feet, boots slipping in it.</p><p>Yet he rose. Again. Slipped. <em> Remained unbroken. </em></p><p>Her hands his hands pulled upon those bloodstained, sweaty locks, so dark in their wetness, turning his head towards hers his.</p><p>
  <em> "Look at me. Look at me!" </em>
</p><p>A scream, of his own, so close they could have kissed. As if he could will into existence.</p><p>"Is that enough? <em> Is that enough?" </em></p><p>I will break break break you. I <em> will </em> break you. I will break <em> you. </em></p><p>Drenched in blood. Drenched in sweat.</p><p>She wanted to scream. He wanted to scream.</p><p>
  <em> Scream, scream, scream! Break, break, break! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Lash, lash, lash, lash... </em>
</p><p>He slipped, body failing him in exhaustion.</p><p>She echoed him.</p><p>"And then something changed." Slipping again, lashing out. <em> Break break break. </em> "One of my men <em> fainted, </em>like a woman, and the crowd barked in laughter."</p><p>Rage overtook them. Both, one, whole.</p><p>
  <b> <em>"Silence!"</em> </b>
</p><p>"I think it was at that moment, that I determined to bleed him to the bone."</p><p>Dougal's gaze meeting their own, briefly. Yet the laughter wouldn't leave their ears, their minds.</p><p>"The world suddenly <em> narrowed down, </em> to my arm and his back, the whip… connecting us both."</p><p>A sweet poison kept blurring her mind, the muted echo of the crowd's laughter fueling her as she kept kept kept…</p><p>Blood on her face, on her arms… warm, warm, warm…</p><p>"The laughter changed. First to gasps, then to sobs. The crowd… they had to look away."</p><p>
  <em> They should never have looked in the first place. I'll find them, I'll find them all and make them pay… </em>
</p><p>"They were horrified… blind fools."</p><p>Jamie had fainted. Blood was bubbling on his lips… <em>they</em> could barely move yet there was still…</p><p>"I think all they could see was the horror. I… I could see the beauty."</p><p>
  <em> She wanted wanted wanted to… </em>
</p><p>"I saw the <em> truth. </em> That <em> boy </em> and I… we were creating a masterpiece."</p><p>
  <em> … kill him kill him kill him… </em>
</p><p>"An <em> exquisite, </em>bloody masterpiece… It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."</p><p>They were back. To the room, to the table. Far and close, him and her. Separate, near.</p><p>Her tears had started to fall, yet stopped. It had been too much. He had overwhelmed her every sense, invaded her soul, and forced her to see through his eyes.</p><p>"The truth carries a weight that no lie can counterfeit."</p><p>He inhaled again, even as she remained breathless, tainted, cracked yet…</p><p>"I promised that I would reveal myself to you, and… I have."</p><p>She was still in a daze, lost in the echo of his emotions, in the distant despair she could feel from Jamie, in the ambience, stale and crumbling, they were trapped in.</p><p>There was still blood, now dry in her hands, her forearms.</p><p>
  <em> "Yes. I believe you have." </em>
</p><p>It was a whisper, yet he had heard it clearly.</p><p>"You think me a monster, no doubt. It could be so."</p><p>His gaze drifted away from hers, and yet returned.</p><p>"The fact that you care what I think, gives me some hope yet for your soul."</p><p>It was no lie. She <em> could </em> redeem him. Her whole life - nay, <em> existence </em> was based in a careful net of favours, owned and owed. All it would take, then, would be to inflict upon him an equal degree of misery and despair as he had inflicted upon her husband. Upon her. Upon the still unknown Jenny, even.</p><p>And such things could be impossible, here and now. But she had a feeling, deep from her gut towards the absolute depths of her soul, that she… could will it. Will his life to prolong, to inflict upon him pain beyond what a human body could ever take, without him being able to escape into unconsciousness. Into death.</p><p>"I know one thing, madam. I am not the man I once was."</p><p>
  <em> 'Lie. Lie. Lie. This monstrosity has always lingered within you…' </em>
</p><p>"I came to Scotland to fulfill a soldier's responsibility, to serve my king, and protect my country. Instead… I find myself the watchman of a squalid, ignorant people, prone to the basest superstition and violence."</p><p>
  <em> That Geillis Duncan is a witch… A witch… A witch… </em>
</p><p>His words found no hold on her, not any longer. Her ordeal was over.</p><p>There was no difference, for her, between these British soldiers and the lowest of the lowest Scottish rabble. They were all… salvages, mindless beasts.</p><p>"The darkness has grown within me. A hatred… for the very world itself."</p><p>The blood of the kitchen wench, perfectly puppeted to her will, a whisper…</p><p>
  <em> Your heart will explode at the very place where you kissed James Fraser. </em>
</p><p>"I find myself doing... such things… <em> reddish work, </em> until I no longer recognize the man I have become."</p><p>Their gazes met, once again. Held, again. Her own monster was slipping through the groves he had torn into her, and meeting him, unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken.</p><p>
  <em> You. Cannot. Break. Me. </em>
</p><p>He wanted her to play a role, she knew. Saw it in his eyes, in the way he'd chosen his words.</p><p>Did he, mayhaps, hope to stir her to pity?</p><p>If he did, he was sadly mistaken, she was…</p><p>Her mind froze. She… recognized these words, hadn't he just…?</p><p>The silence prolonged, and she pondered. If she pretended to believe this, would he put back on the mask of a gentleman? Smile?</p><p>She… couldn't. Couldn't. Couldn't.</p><p>Already not prone to deception, to even think of attempting it while feeling so extremely worn out, it would be…</p><p>His patience reached an end, as he rose.</p><p>"Corporal Hawkins!"</p><p>The door opened promptly, by that same skittish man as before, and she bore as she could Randall's nearness, as he shifted the chair by her side.</p><p>"Mrs. Beauchamp and I… require your assistance."</p><p>
  <em> 'This is it, isn't it?' </em>
</p><p>He had the slightest of smiles curling his lips, and it forebode nothing good for her. Her acceptance flowed easily through her bond with Jamie, which only intensified his distress.</p><p>But right then, right there, Black Jack Randall was offering her his hand.</p><p>She would take it, and pain would come, like oblivion.</p><p>The swift punch to the gut, which took what little breath she had regained away and left her on her knees on the ground was a resounding agreement on his part.</p><p>She could have blamed the unbending nature of her stays, the still strange weight of her clothing, or simply how utterly wrecked she had already been. Yet she didn't. All she could do was gasp as his fingers grabbed onto her hair, and forced her to rise even as his face got uncomfortably close.</p><p>"I dwell in darkness, madam, and darkness is where I belong."</p><p>His brief attempt at rising her sympathies was well and truly gone. All that was left, again, was the human monster and the gasping woman hardly managing to keep her own inhuman one in check.</p><p>"I need no sympathy from you and you will get none from me."</p><p>
  <em> 'Is this your punishment? I failed to play my role so you will reaffirm how useless it would have been?' </em>
</p><p>"One way or the other, I <em> will </em> get the truth out of you."</p><p>His cheek left her temple, at long last, and as he called upon that spineless <em> corporal, </em> her decision was made.</p><p>No. There was no saving his soul, no matter the level of pain inflicted upon him. Other, mayhaps, would have been all the better from the process, but he would either enjoy it or get worse from it.</p><p>He was… he was a plague to be exterminated, without any possible rehabilitation. And she would… she would…</p><p>She had hardly regained her breath when she was shoved on her side, onto the ground as words she couldn't quite make up distantly reached her, turned into nonsense by the beast tearing at her from within.</p><p>She could feel it, the hold Frank's death had left, akin to hurried stitches barely keeping her together. Unravelling.</p><p>No. They had been unravelling from the start, worsened by her blood marriage to Jamie and now… now were frayed beyond measure, and she… she…</p><p>She was kicked, lightly, like a tap.</p><p>Faintly aware of that human beast's displeasure, it wasn't too much of a surprise when a stronger kick came.</p><p>Her breath was gone, again, and she could feel one of the threads snap.</p><p>Her breath was gone, again, and she could almost feel the next kick when… it didn't come.</p><p>"Up ye come, lassie." A Scottish accent, strong arms helping her rise. "Ye're done here."</p><p>In her dazed mind, she believed her love had come to piece her back together, and so on wobbling legs did her best to stand, to <em> breathe </em> and keep the almost fully freed beast caged within the remaining, whisper thin threads of steadiness Frank's sacrifice had granted her.</p><p>It wasn't, of course. The man in front of her, protecting her, was none other than Dougal MacKenzie.</p><p>The human monster was <em> smiling. </em></p><p>"I suppose we're done for the day. Be sure to deliver her to Fort William by sundown tomorrow. If she is not present at the appointed time… you will be accused of harboring a fugitive from English law, and you'll be hunted down and punished, even unto death."</p><p>Dougal, so close and yet so far from the Scotsman she needed by her side right then, served well enough to help her contain herself.</p><p>"War Chief or not. Let them pass."</p><p>If he kept speaking, however, she would not be held accountable for her actions. The only thing truly keeping her in check was Jamie's intensified worry, which meant he had either become better at sending feelings through their bond or he was <em> closer, </em> with the later being far more probable and all the more reason for her to get <em> the fuck out </em>before he did something as foolishly heroic as storming the garrison by his lonesome.</p><p>Well, with Murtagh, but that wouldn't much improve the situation.</p><p>So she let her shaking shape be led away.</p><p>"Come on, lass," whispered gently for her alone, as the officers stopped barring the door.</p><p>"I look forward to our next meeting, Mrs. Beauchamp."</p><p>
  <em> So do I. </em>
</p><p>He knew not, right then, just how things would end for him. But Claire, and the not-Claire who was truly her as well, had already decided.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Black Jack Randall doesn't have long to live and I'll be endlessly happy to murder him.<br/>Also say hi again to Fae Claire!</p><p>Poor Frank, truly. His sacrifice at least helped her last enough to reach Jamie?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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